'twas the night before Christmas

Page 4

Northern Ontario, Dec. 24, 1964 - on a bitterly cold Christmas Eve - halfway between somewhere and nowhere - a Greyhound bus whispers through the night.

Some passengers try to read, others sleep, most of us just sat crunched up against frosted windows, starting out into the night.

Suddenly the driver let out a curse and half-stood on the brakes. The big bus bucked and swayed, then shuddered to a stop.

In a blast of wintry air a white-haired old man climbed aboard. He handed the driver some crumpled bills out of an old army greatcoat that hung on him like a horse blanket. The driver muttered darkly about unauthorized stops and some drunk in the rear yelled:

"Shut the friggin door! Were you born in a barn or sumpin?"

Passengers fidgeted around, sticking pocketbooks and shopping bags on the empty seats beside them. I planted my feet upon the seat beside me and pretended to be asleep. The driver - still grumbling - slammed the door shut, let off the air brakes and the bus lurched off into the night. The Old Man just stood there. He didn't make a move to sit. He just stood there, tugging at a dirty white beard, a small grin spreading across his weathered face.

Then he roared, "My God, it's Christmas and I've never seen a sorrier bunch of sad sacks in my whole life."

Silent. An absolute silence hung there in the bus like a shroud...Then the drunk at the back of the bus farted. It was an awesome thing...the equivalent of at least three sticks of dynamite...a flatulence Hall-of Famer...a thunderclap that rolled through the bus like the Crack of Doom...reverberating, echoing, popping windows....

The spell was broken and the Old Man started moving down the bus, seat by seat shaking hands, talking, laughing, hugging and kissing complete strangers.

As he moved down the bus he left behind him a spirit...of happiness, joy, renewed hope, oneness...something wonderful...In his wake he left people no loner strangers introducing themselves, laughing, talking. Even the driver loosened up and started talking.

In those days I wasn't the friendliest person in the world so when he reached me I was stiff as a board, watching his approach through narrowed eyes.

He stuck out a big paw and I took it, mainly out of respect for an Elder. His deep blue eyes seemed to be looking straight into what left of my soul when he whispered, "Your Ma will be glad to see you, son, you've been gone away too long."

Then he moved on, leaving me to wonder how did he know about me and too many distant provinces, too many relationships gone sour and too many lonely roads that led nowhere...

I didn't think about it too long because a sailor had dug out an old harmonica and was blowing them sweet and low.

The Old Man put words to the carol and soon the whole bus joined in - at first shyly, timidly - then loudly in glorious song. By the time the bus reached my stop we were up to Silent Night, Holy Night. Everybody stood up to see me off.

The sailor gave me a hard handshake and wished me smooth sailing, a pretty girl I had dismissed earlier as a probable snot gave me a quick hug and a shy kiss on the cheek. I damn near burst into tears when the old Indian couple embraced me together and wished me and mine the best Christmas ever.

As my boots crunched through a hard crust towards the warm lights of home and a gentle snow started failing, and I thought about the Old Man, about a busload of strangers - and the real meaning of Christmas.